my love is my regret
by supernovas
Summary: "They're lying in a B&B on a road between somewhere and nowhere, and they're terrible and crazy and impulsive, but suddenly, Draco doesn't really care." —It was meant to be a meaningless fling; draco/daphne.


goodbye, my hopeless dream  
i'm trying not to think about you  
can't you just let me be?

–almost lover, a fine frenzy.

—

They crash onto the bed, holding each other like it's their last night on earth and they try to pretend that it doesn't matter. Their lips meet – jagged edges – biting and pressing and burning. His arms wrap around her waist and for a moment she's falling because in that second Daphne Greengrass is tired of balancing on the precarious edge of failure and make-up and society chit-chat and suddenly all she wants to do is let go.

(Although really, this time she knows this time there's going to be someone waiting to catch her.)

—

As much as Draco hates to admit it she's always been an mystery; an enigma with pale skin, violet eyes and a tongue which bites. She watched the world through hooded eye-lids, half obscured by harlequin smoke which rose from cigarettes, dangling between crimson lips. She watched as Draco fell in love.

Sometimes Draco wonders if she enjoyed it; if she felt some sadistic pleasure in watching the ice king melt, drip by icy drip until he was a love sick puddle of a man, craving for a flash of dancing eyes or a kiss which tasted like cigarettes, vodka and the tiniest bit of longing.

—

But he realises, as they're lying in a B&B on a road between somewhere and nowhere, he doesn't really care. The morning sunlight streams onto her skin, catching the dust, which swirls into intricate patterns which can almost hide the scars crossed over her body. Her hair is splayed out in an arc and for a second all Draco wants to do is run because in the fragility of the morning light he realises it was never meant to be like this.

—

It was always meant to be something more than a drunken one night stand, led by their bodies fueled with alcohol and fiendish desire to be young again. He was meant to marry Astoria – the perfect, little angel with the ironed, bluebell dresses and the diamond which was far too big for her, sparkling on her finger.

It was never meant to be the fucked up older sister who danced on table tops under electric candle light which reflected off her hair and her face and her eyes that shone. It was never meant to be the girl who cried alone in darkened rooms, carving patterns into her thighs until the floor was scarlet with blood and she could pretend that she was living in a fairytale.

—

Draco's half dressed by the time Daphne wakes up and for a second he sees the wild little girl who stood by his side as they waited to enter Hogwarts, a castle of new hopes and forgotten pasts. She rubs her eyes and smirks at Draco, the corners of her mouth turning up in a way that can only be described as mischievous.

"Running out on me so early, Malfoy?" She raises an eyebrow. "I thought you were enjoying yourself?"

"I was," Draco informs her. "I'm just not enjoying this hangover."

"Want to me to kiss it better?"

Draco's out of the room and the door is slamming before the words are even finished coming out of Daphne's mouth.

—

Draco spends the next month brooding. It's ugly, it's selfish and he hates himself for doing it – for feeling it – but he misses her. He sits alone a study full of books he's never read and speaks to people he has no interest in and watches the winter turn into spring and the buds begin to open and one evening he decides to get drunk.

And for some reason – in some crazy, fucked up twist of fate – she's there. She's sitting at the bar, all long legs and violet eyes which widen as he sits down and orders a prosecco.

He thinks idly that it's a nice change to surprise Daphne Greengrass.

"Have you finally come back for more, Malfoy?" She asks, taking a sip of her horrifyingly neon cocktail.

"Don't bet on it, Greengrass," he replies. It's late, he's tired and all he wants to do is drown in his sorrows.

"Oh, you're still wounded then? I knew you should've let me kiss it better."

—

He's never quite sure how it happens – really, he doesn't want to know – but somehow he's back in her arms, there's a leak in the corner of the room and Draco's finally found what he's been craving.

They meet together like two edges of a jigsaw and no matter how crazy and impulsive they both are, when they're together, there's something terribly, beautifully complete about them. She consumes him in a kaleidoscope of crimson and violet and harlequin and for a moment – as the clock strikes midnight and across the universe carriages turn into pumpkins and glass slippers are smashed – Draco kisses every inch of Daphne's scarred body and Daphne lets herself care.

—

This time he allows himself to stay for breakfast. They sit by side, in a bed which is far too small for two and she laughs as he cuts up her toast, insisting soldiers are the only way to have toast when eating boiled eggs. Daphne rests her head on Draco's shoulder and they sit – perfectly still – with the raggedy blanket pulled up to their chins, and together watch the sun rise.

—

When he leaves, Draco lies. He kisses her nose and her forehead and her cheeks and her lips and promises he will come back for her. Daphne smiles at him and for a second its like being hit with the cruciatas curse over and over again because Daphne Greengrass – the warrior princess – has stripped away her facade of make-up, twisted truths and half smiles until all that's left is her broken self waiting to be fixed.

For a second Draco thinks about leaving it – abandoning his craving for some sort of structured normality in his life – and lying in bed with Daphne in a B&B on the road between somewhere and nowhere forever.

But then the idea is gone – like writing in the sand, washed away by the tide on a long forgotten summers day – and Draco is kissing her one more time, savoring the taste of cigarettes and vodka and longing.

Just as he opens the door, Daphne calls to him: "What if you don't come back?"

Draco doesn't turn to face her.

"I will. I promise."

(The lie comes easily on his practiced tongue.)

—

Draco follows her story in the papers.

(He tries to tell himself a million different reasons why he's doing it which aren't the truth but none of them seem to sound right.)

Draco reads the speculations about drugs and sex and home-made booze. He reads the rumors of three arrests, two attacks and one attempted suicide. He reads about the Little Miss Perfect who turned bad.

He throws himself head first into work and family and setting an example. He becomes everything Daphne Greengrass hasn't and slowly he tries to forget about her.

—

Except trying to forget about Daphne Greengrass is like trying to forget that the earth moves around the sun so one rainy Wednesday afternoon, three years later, when Draco spots a bedraggled figure dragging her feet up the drive of his house, he recognizes her at once.

After all, how could he mistake the upright posture and wild hair and violet eyes for anyone but her?

—

It takes him twelve minutes, forty two seconds, a glass of scotch and a sixty seven yells of "I know you're in there, you bastard" for Draco to open the door.

It takes a further five minutes, a lot of rain and a hard shove for him to actually invite her inside.

Daphne sits on the edge of his sofa, and Draco tries to ignore the pool of water dripping onto the carpet.

"Are you going to offer me a drink?" Daphne asks, indicating to the scotch bottle on the counter

"No." Draco drains his own glass.

"I always thought you were a gentlemen, Malfoy."

"People change."

Daphne smiles wryly. "Not you."

"And you'd know that, would you?"

Daphne's eyes darken and suddenly Draco can see the three years of waiting and longing and realising that her prince charming was never going to come back.

"You promised me you were coming back," Daphne whispers.

"I lied."

(Draco can't figure out why those two words seem like even more of a lie than the first one.)

—

He lets her sleep in the spare room furthest away from his bedroom but for some reason he finds himself, at quarter to midnight, sitting against the outside wall of her room. The night is so quiet he can hear his own heart thumping and he likes to think that if he strains his ears hard enough, he can hear hers too, beating in the gaps between his.

He falls asleep just as the pearly sheen of the sun starts to shine through the open window and the birds begin their morning chorus. When he awakes, Daphne's sitting beside Draco, regarding him with hooded violet eyes and for a second he's nostalgic for a leaking B&B and the smell of cigarette smoke.

"You're a bastard," she tells him.

He lets out a short, humorless bark of laughter – he's so much more than just that. "I know."

Daphne regards Draco, as if waiting for him to say more but he doesn't she says, "I miss you."

Something catches in Draco's throat. "I love you."

Daphne smiles and it's a smile which brings back memories of a hundred and one things which Draco and Daphne are but shouldn't be – sunrises, toast soldiers, violets.

"I know," she replies, and for Draco, that's enough.

—

For some reason, the strands of fate, so closely interweave, let them stay together – caught up in their own little world – and he holds her close every night until every morning because he knows although he can't take away the torment, Draco can sure as hell hold Daphne until it doesn't hurt anymore.


End file.
